


Hot and Steamy

by Ellstra



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Bickering, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-26 23:37:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21109049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellstra/pseuds/Ellstra
Summary: After a basketball practice, Steve meets up for a one on one with Billy Hargrove in the showers. You know, like guys do.





	Hot and Steamy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tisfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/gifts).

> This fic was written for the Fandom Trumps Hate charity exchange.  
It is also pretty much just porn. Hope you enjoy it.

Steve takes his time to change. Stretches his arms, shakes his head, runs his fingers through his hair to comb it, now that basketball practice has washed most of the Farrah Fawcett spray out of it, pretends to search for something in his bag. He doesn’t look around him, doesn’t engage in the idle conversation, because  _ he  _ doesn’t either, and Steve has nothing to say to the rest of his teammates. He used to be the loudest, the eye of the storm, but that was another life - a life in which he saw the point in being popular at high school.

In this life, he heads to the showers when most of the others have left them, using all his willpower not to look over his shoulder and check if  _ he’s  _ following. Steve knows he is, he always follows, like a moth drawn to a flame, except he’s a teenager drawn to Steve’s dick, but that doesn’t sound quite so poetic and Steve hasn’t come up with a better metaphor just yet. There’s unusually little steam in the showers, but it’s hot all the same from the peculiar heatwave that had hit Hawkins two days ago like a slap to the face. Steve knows his skin is flushed from the heat and he also knows he’ll be mocked for blushing like a schoolgirl anyway. He’s almost looking forward to it.

Steve turns the water on and yelps when a cold spray hits his shoulders. He steps back and turns the knob to change it to hot. Cold showers should be illegal. 

“Was that you, Harrington?” Hargrove asks. Steve opens his eyes despite knowing that water will run into them. “Sounded like a girl had snuck in.”

“There was a girl, but she ran away when she saw you,” Steve retorts, testing the water temperature on his forearm. Hargrove walks over to the shower next to Steve’s. He outstretches his hand under Steve’s spray of water, reaches far into Steve’s personal space, and lets it run down his fingers for a while.

“Is it not hot enough for you?” he asks and finally pulls away.

“I don’t hate myself nearly enough to take cold showers,” Steve replies and makes a half-assed attempt at washing his hair. Half-assed, because it would take him looking away from Hargrove, and he isn’t going to do that. Asserting dominance and all that shit.

“They’re good for you,” Hargrove purrs, “make your heart go faster, sharpen your senses.”

“Yeah, they sharpen your senses to the suffering, more likely,” Steve says, “no, thank you.”

“Suffering makes you tougher,” Hargrove goes on, his voice low, and Steve is pretty sure that was an innuendo somehow, but then again, Billy Hargrove is just a walking innuendo pretty much all the time. “Makes you appreciate pleasure more.”

Hargrove grabs the knob and turns it all the way to the right until the water turns blood-curdlingly cold, and holds it. Steve would like to say he played it cool, that he toughed it out and lazed in the cold water like a chinchilla in fine sand, but really he shrieks like a pig about to be slaughtered and gropes for Hargrove’s hand, hoping to either stop the cold water from pouring or to turn it to a more comfortable temperature. Hargrove laughs and steps into Steve’s personal space, pressing their bodies together. He seems unbothered by the cold, the bastard. 

Steve growls and finally overpowers him. The water stops pouring and it’s just the two of them flush one against the other. Steve’s hair is wet and stuck to his forehead. Hargrove’s curls are darker but he still looks like a (forbidden and oh so alluring) snack. It’s unfair.

“I’ll warm you up, pretty boy,” Hargrove purrs and rolls his hips against Steve’s. 

“You could have done that without the cool down,” Steve mutters, because he’s a lost case and he isn’t going to lose time by pretending he hasn’t been counting minutes to whatever this thing between them was. 

“But where would be the fun in that?” Hargrove whispers against Steve’s ear. He sticks his tongue out and traces the shell of Steve’s ear, then sucks at the tender spot beneath it. Steve’s body wastes no time to respond – his eyes fall shut and he throws his head back, exposing his throat in surrender. Hargrove smiles against his skin, his teeth grazing it – not enough to leave a mark, but letting Steve know they’re there. Steve takes a few tentative steps back away from the showerstand to the wall. They tried to make out right there once and it ended up with a few bruises and what Steve was certain was a concussion if Hargrove just bothered to get himself checked out. (“And tell them what exactly? That I slipped while you were blowing me? It’s not like they do anything with you if you’re concussed, you’re just supposed to keep still.”)

(He was pretty sure Hargrove sucking him off so vigorously Steve was afraid his dick would get smaller like a lollipop didn’t count as keeping still.)

The wall is cool against his back while Hargrove burns like a furnace, despite the cold water, and the contrast makes Steve’s head spin. He grabs Hargrove’s ass and pulls him closer but it’s still not enough, it’s never enough. They set up a pace and keep it, and Hargrove keeps nibbling at Steve’s neck. Steve doesn’t dare to admit how good it feels, how turned on he is when Hargrove presses a kiss against his Adam’s apple and suddenly Steve can’t breathe properly. Hargrove seems to know anyway, even if Steve won’t be caught dead admitting it, which is just about prefect because he can hold onto his dignity  _ and  _ his pleasure. 

“You’re quiet today,” Hargrove points out and pulls away to look at Steve. 

“You dumped cold water on me,” Steve says, “I’m mad at you.”

“Are you?” Hargrove tilts his head to one side and takes Steve’s dick in hand, giving it two slow pulls. 

“Yes,” Steve growls and digs his fingertips into the muscles on Hargrove’s back. He actually has visible back muscles, the irresistible tease. Hargrove grins and speeds up. Steve feels a droplet of water run down his back all the way to his ass, and it distracts him a little. His legs begin to tremble and he braces himself with his left hand against the wall, his fingers curling into the interstices between the tiles. 

“Show me how mad you are at me, pretty boy,” Hargrove drawls, his eyes half-closed. His eyelashes are dark and prominent, and Steve is pretty sure that if one of them is pretty, it’s definitely not him. The truth doesn’t matter though – hearing those words slip from Hargrove’s lips is way too intoxicating to give up. Steve has never talked much during sex or seen any merit in dirty talk, but that was before Hargrove called him pretty over and over. Steve doesn’t admit that either, of course. 

“So mad,” Steve whispers, then moans when Hargrove strokes the particularly sensitive spot on the underside of his cock, his hand firm and rough just enough. He lets out a few contented gasps, hoping Hargrove will catch up onto just how good this particular movement feels without having to put it into words. 

“You poor thing,” Hargrove cooes and his baby blue eyes focus on Steve with scorching intensity. There’s a handful of freckles on his nose and cheeks now that the sun shines more regularly, and Steve can’t quite believe something so adorable can exist on someone like Billy Hargrove. “So desperate for my dick that you can’t help being a dirty slut even if you’re mad at me.”

“I’m pretty sure  _ you  _ are holding  _ my  _ dick,” Steve mutters, his hips moving in rhythm with Hargrove’s hand. “So who’s the one desperate for dick here?”

Hargrove leans forward, rests his left hand on the wall by Steve’s head and nuzzles his neck. He breathes in like he’s smelling Steve, the tip of his nose on Steve’s pulse. Steve’s fingers curl and his mind is slowly going blank, clouded by how wonderfully he feels. 

“Touché,” Hargrove breathes out and presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss on Steve’s neck. “I’m standing my ground on you being a dirty slut though.”

Steve throws his head back and moans, his eyes closing on their own accord. He’s definitely a dirty slut for Billy Hargrove, and he lowkey hates himself for it and also for wondering how many people have been in his place, writhing in pleasure under Hargrove’s extremely expert hands, and mostly for being jealous of these people. They shouldn’ mean anything – this shouldn’t mean anything – but for some fucked up reason they do, and Steve is quite sure it has to do with his abandonment issues and his inability to keep any relationship casual. 

“I mean look at you,” Hargrove keeps talking, his lips a breath away from Steve’s ear, “you look like those really weird pictures with the saints where they’re apparently caught up in religious zest.”

Steve laughs. He can’t help it; Hargrove has a very peculiar sense of humor and some of his jokes go right over Steve’s head, but those he does get are insanely funny to him. He gets more of Hargrove’s jokes with every passing week.

“Give me my revelation then,” Steve groans. He’s getting close, caught between wanting to come as soon as possible and dragging it out to enjoy it longer. Ultimately it isn’t up to him. 

Hargrove decides to go down the first lane, twisting his wrist so that he reaches Steve’s perineum with two fingers and strokes, his other hand cupping the crown of Steve’s cock. Steve’s breathing turns shallow and loud, his back arches and then he’s coming, a broken cry escaping his lips as the built-up tension leaves his body and he sags against the wall, closing his eyes with a sigh. Hargrove keeps stroking his cock lazily, almost gently. Steve hates him for it – it makes it very difficult to see him as the selfish asshole he is. 

“I wish I could paint. It would make a very good painting – The Ecstasy of King Steve. It would be super famous, like Mona Lisa, and everyone would wonder what brought about your pleasure,” Hargrove cackles. He wipes his hand on Steve’s lower belly, then presses himself closer, his cock hard between them.

“I’ve always wondered what the hell those paintings were supposed to mean. When I was a kid, I used to think the saints were suffering enormously. Then I got older and began to wonder if the artists intentionally made them look like they had just had an orgasm, or if they were that clueless. I mean they must have known what it looked like, right?” Steve says. Hargrove is dead weight on top of Steve, rubbing his cock against Steve’s belly, grunting softly. Steve doesn’t move, just lets Hargrove do his thing, blood rushing happily through his body. Hargrove keeps biting down on Steve’s neck, which is bound to leave a mark. Steve is horrified by the realization that the idea excites him. 

“Need a hand with that?” Steve asks after a short while. 

“Almost - ah! - almost there,” Hargrove spits. 

“Yeah, no shit,” Steve says, “I can literally feel your balls clenching in anticipation.”

“Shut up,” Hargrove groans. Steve chuckles and squeezes Hargrove’s ass, pulling his asscheeks apart. His fingers wander off towards Hargrove’s asshole, but he stops himself before he makes things weird. Assholes are not part of the deal, that’s for gays, and they aren’t gay. They’re just… actually Steve isn’t sure what they are. But he knows that as much as brushing the topic of penetrative sex would bring them to a territory so wild and dangerous that there was no hope of it ever being charted. He’s not brave enough to go there.

“Seriously, I feel very passive here, I would like to have something to do.”

“You’re doing great,” Hargrove mumbles and it couldn’t sound more dismissive if he tried. The ‘ _ Shh, honey, adults are talking’  _ he used to get from his parents when he was a kid. 

“Fuck you,” Steve mutters, gathering strength to flip them over to assert his dominance and give Hargrove the blowjob of his life. (He is getting quite good at that, actually. Too bad he can’t make a career out of it.) 

(Or can he? That would show his father big time.)

“In your dreams,” Hargrove whispers, the last word a smug, blissed hiss as he comes all over their stomachs. 

“Yeah, for about four months,” Steve says under his breath.

“Aww, you get dreams about me? That’s so romantic,” Hargrove says and pulls away just enough to look at Steve. He’s positively glowing.

“Well they’re mostly very dirty and I wake up covered in bodily fluids, I don’t think that counts as romantic.”

“Wet dreams are the most sincere kind of dreams,” Hargrove says and Steve can’t really argue with that logic. 

“This was fun,” Steve says when the silence stretches on unbearably long.

“Oh yeah,” Hargrove smiles and somehow becomes even more beautiful. Steve hates him. “See you again on Thursday?”

“Of course. Same place, same time, don’t be late,” Steve replies. 

“I would never keep a lady waiting,” Hargrove says, pulls away and tips an imaginary hat, “I’m a gentleman.”

“You’re an idiot,” Steve shakes his head.

“Whatever. You love me,” Hargrove says and walks away back to the showers. Steve watches him turn the water on and realises only too late that he forgot to deny it.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Please drop a comment below and come find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/EllstraH) or my tumblr blogs – [main](https://ellstra.tumblr.com/) and [Stranger Things sideblog](https://mouth--breather.tumblr.com/)


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